


The Return

by sastrasantai



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, Death, Gen, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sastrasantai/pseuds/sastrasantai
Summary: Miyoshi survived the war-torn years in Europe and decided to return to Tokyo after the surrender of Japan. In the abandoned building of the D-Agency, he relived his memories of the eight spies and confronted the one man still waiting for his return. What plans did Sakuma have in mind for the spy?





	1. Alive in Memory, Alive in Death

Tokyo was uglier than he remembered. Everybody looked starved of sustenance and hope as they roamed city streets or rested half-dead under shades. The street trees showed nothing but little life, their bare branches folding up and reaching towards clouded skies, as if offering a desperate prayer to nonexistent gods. The remnants of bombed buildings, the wood burned and the walls black, dotted the city and were a sore to his eyes. Even the grand European-style buildings in the Ginza district, where he used to look at the sophisticated store displays and colorful lights, had gone dark and deserted a while ago.

_How disgusting._

The man once called Miyoshi thought as he walked down the streets of Jinbocho, hands deep in his pockets and a frown on his handsome face. In his clean brown suit and confident posture, despite his short stature, he stood out from the beggars and the hustlers of this struggling city. Even though he despised the misguided patriotism of the wartime, at least the streets of Tokyo had more spirit back then—Tokyo felt much more alive in his memory than in the present reality.

In his memory, Miyoshi only knew one place where he could find the closest thing to excitement in the city. It was a place where he had found—not comrades—but like-minded men. Men who, like him, liked to flip ideas and ideals over and laugh at them. Men who, like him, liked people enough but were always a far step ahead of them. Men who, like him, were unafraid to steal people’s secrets and casually slip them under someone else’s jackets. Men who owed nothing and to no one except the mission—men who had faith and loyalty only to oneself—men who called themselves _spies_.

It was that very afternoon that Miyoshi traced his steps back to that place. He had been gone for so long—spent years eking out decent living in war-torn Europe—and finally decided to return to this place to find—

Locked doors and closed windows, the building seemed to lack both light and life. The brick walls still retained their color but the window glasses were the color of dust. The first floor windows were boarded, offering no sight to the inside. Tiny plants had wormed their way into the cracks between building and pavement. Chains wrapped around the knobs of the faded brown entrance doors, next to which was a worn wooden sign, hanging loose, its words barely readable.

_Greater East Asia Cultural Society._

“Tch! _”_ Miyoshi spat, looking up and around the building, then around the empty street.

_This wasn’t unexpected._

He quickly headed to a building two doors down that looked equally abandoned.  It used to be an antiques shop that kept their unsalable collections in the backroom. He peered through the window and found a small hole big enough for a finger to pry the window lock open.  Inside the backroom, he pushed aside a dirty, three-legged couch to reveal a trapdoor, which he quickly unlocked using his pocket knife. He crawled and coughed his way through a tiny, dusty passage way and finally found himself in the basement of his old school.

The basement reeked of dead rodents and sewage, just as he remembered, and a memory sprung into his mind.

“No! Absolutely not!” Miyoshi blurted out once, having just seen the cleaning duty post. “I would rather _die_ than clean that filthy basement—and this school forbids that I die!”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for your ass, Miyoshi!? Wow, I’m also very happy to be cleaning the bathrooms, in case you didn’t know!” Hatano yelled back at him, swinging a broomstick threateningly close to his face.

_That testy, obnoxious little imp Hatano—always up for an argument._

“I won’t mind trading your assignment for mine. However, it’s best if you would stop arguing and start cleaning soon.” Odagiri would offer quietly, folding up his book. “We only have today to clean after all.”

_Odagiri. That awkward, spineless failure of a spy. Well, he was a kind man._

Miyoshi made his way through the hallways, brushing off cobwebs and dust off his sleeve. There wasn’t much he could see with only the flame of his lighter and the dull sunlight escaping from the door gaps. The first floor had some classrooms and he found them all in the same state of abandonment: most of the desks and chairs were gone—probably sold, stolen, or used for firewood. There were not even papers on the floor or chalk marks on the board.

He stopped in front of one room and paused before turning the knob. It was as if he could smell the smoke of grilled fish and hear laughter and warm chatter from behind that door, like he used to every morning.

“Today’s miso soup is flavored with real fish meat and bones so even you would like it,” Fukumoto said flatly as he poured soup into the bowl in Miyoshi’s hand. “I added potatoes and some scallion too.”

“Hmph. Finally something decent.” Miyoshi scoffed.

“Real fish? Potatoes? I swear, Miyoshi, you and your expensive taste will be the death of you someday!” Amari laughed from his spot at the table.

“Better have high taste than none,” Miyoshi sneered back. “Unlike your taste in women, that is.”

Amari responded with a low whistle, putting off his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“How rude of you, Miyoshi,” He grinned. “You are just too inexperienced to understand this particular pleasure. Say, how about you let me treat you next time and show you the real joys of women?”

_Fukumoto. Looks as dull as a fly swatter but not bad—not bad a cook._

_Amari was quite the fool, acting all big-brotherly to a pack of unruly pups for no gain._

He turned the knob. Inside the dark cafeteria, there were no crooked cigarettes on the ashtrays but instead neat stacks of bowls and dishes on the shelves, now home to spiders and other insects he would rather not name. He closed the door and walked on.

 

The library on the second floor still had all of its books, as far as Miyoshi could remember, though the yellowed pages and moldy smell deterred him from finding out if his favorite volumes still existed. He liked books about old, twisted tragedies—Greco-Roman mythologies and Shakespearean plays—as well as illustration books on European art, like Baroque, Surrealism, and other newer forms. But to his frustration, they were the rarest titles in the collection. Most titles were more practical, giving insight to subjects such as history of war, art of self-defense, creative uses of daily tools, and even poisons and medicine.

“Yes, it is quite unfortunate, isn’t it? The lack of novels and illustration books.” Jitsui would smile sympathetically, standing next to Miyoshi between the bookshelves. “I will try and persuade Lt. Col. Yuuki about that.”

With that Jitsui shot him a mischievous look.

_Jitsui, that twink, is always disgustingly meek or menacing on his whim._

“I suppose I should tell you not to waste your time—this school is pathetically piss-poor, after all,” Miyoshi sighed. “But it will be interesting to see you _try_.”

And with that Miyoshi smiled.

 

The third floor housed bedrooms and the recreation room. The latter had a pool table right in the middle. Miyoshi almost couldn’t resist brushing his fingers on the dusty pool table as he eyed the sticks hanging on the wall. He remembered how they waged bets over the pool table with music in the background and drinks on the table on some nights. In one corner he lifts open the chest that doubled as a table and peeked inside at the array of cards, balls, chess boards and other game paraphernalia that were beginning to smell like rotting wood and paper. He frowned at the sight of the colorful pool balls, the only bright items left in the ash-grey mess inside the chest.

“Would you like to see a magic trick, Miyoshi?” Tazaki offered, reaching for a deck of cards in his pocket when he saw how sullen Miyoshi had become.

Miyoshi snorted, “You think I’d be pleased to see a bunch of silly tricks? I’m _fine_.”

“Ah, but you don’t look well,” Tazaki pointed out, smiling gently. “Whatever’s holding you down, Miyoshi, it’s not in the present. Just see the trick and enjoy it for what it is.”

Miyoshi slammed down the chest.

“Enjoy the trick!? You think I can enjoy this _trick_ right now!?”

The sound echoed throughout the room, sending rats and spiders scurrying through holes in the walls. Miyoshi hastily left the room.

_Acting all nice and wise again, that Tazaki?! Always the arrogant show-off!_

 

The third door to the right used to be the bedroom. He used to sleep on the third farthest bed to the left, which was now only a broken wooden frame and a saggy mattress, identical to the dozen or so empty beds that filled the room. He remembered how annoyingly bright the moonlight was in the room. This time, however, he appreciated the cold but clear afternoon light falling through the windows, all the way down to the wardrobe right beside his bed. On top of the wardrobe there used to be a hairbrush, a place for his watch, a bottle of cologne, and a mirror the shape of the full moon. He remembered packing everything but the mirror the night before his departure, on which he could now see his own heavy brown eyes. That night he remembered taking a last look on that mirror—

Miyoshi felt a hand tap his shoulder.

“Look who’s leaving for a super-top-mission soon!” Kaminaga shouted into his ears as he slapped his dirty hands all over Miyoshi’s shoulders. “To Germany, no less! I envy you man!”

“Kaminaga you idiot—!” Miyoshi muttered under his breath. He never told anyone about his mission.

Kaminaga grinned and dropped himself on the bed, sitting next to Miyoshi’s suitcase. He looked at the open suitcase and his grin waned for a split second.

“Guess, no more working as partners in crime for us, huh?” Kaminaga said quietly.

Miyoshi scoffed back, “Hmph. Were we _ever_ partners?”

“Ah. I guess not. I don’t even know you, you nasty, haughty, manipulative bastard.”

“That’s what _I’m_ supposed to be saying, you cocky, gossipy, absolute pain in the ass.”

Kaminaga laughed.

“Well, whatever,” He shook his head lightly as he pulled an entire bottle of liquor from behind him. “Here, have some sake.”

Miyoshi smiled, “Am I supposed to ask how you got that?”

“It’s a fun story. I’ll tell you when you get back.” Kaminaga winked.

Miyoshi settled on the other side of his suitcase and held out his glass, into which Kaminaga poured an unexpectedly generous amount of sake.

“Cheers,” He said, tapping his bottle against Miyoshi’s glass. “Cheers for the end of it all—the school, the pranks. The times we had. The missions. The war.”

_The war._

Miyoshi jumped off the bed and stormed out.

_Damn you! Damn every single one of you!  Acting all alive in my memories—more than when I was actually…_

 

 

**Preview for the next chapter:**

“Miyoshi, is that you?”

Miyoshi turned instantly towards the doorway. There stood a man with wild hair, slanted eyebrows, and back as straight as a pine tree.

_Are you a memory or a hallucination? Well, it doesn’t matter now._


	2. Don't Die, Don't Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Miyoshi,” Sakuma said quietly. “Don’t you want to know what happened to the Agency?”

Miyoshi made his way to the last and most important place in the entire building. In this room was a wide and imposing wooden desk situated right across the door. The tall window behind the desk, which extended all the way to the ceiling, were generous as always with the afternoon light. Even so the room was still dark—the atmosphere always felt heavy in this room, just like the aura around that man. He was always silent and he made other people grow quiet in his presence—but not Miyoshi.

There were large cabinets full of records and other important documents to the right of the desk. He tried pulling one drawer and it opened with the sound and smell of rust. There was not a single paper inside. He pulled a few other drawers out randomly and took a few steps back. The drawers were missing content in the inside and labels on the outside. He walked to the desk and pulled the chair back, examining their condition. Dust, spots of ink, a bit of chipped wood—nothing out of the ordinary. The chair was surprisingly heavy considering it was meant for use by a crippled man.

Idly Miyoshi wondered what it was like to sit on that chair and look down upon the men that came and went through the door. He wondered what went through the Lieutenant Colonel’s mind whenever he sat facing Miyoshi in this room, just the two of them, examining Miyoshi with calculating eyes before he would assign Miyoshi his very own mission. Miyoshi recalled no small sense of pride as he stood in this room right before that lightning-sharp gaze. He could stand in front of Yuuki with his shoulders down, hands by his sides, and even pull off a confident smile if he wanted to. But he remembered something else around the edges of that memory—something unnerving, running through him like electricity off the tips of his fingers. Why was that? What was he trying to—

“Miyoshi, is that you?”

Miyoshi turned towards the doorway. There stood a man with wild hair, slanted eyebrows, and back as straight as a pine tree.

_Are you a memory or a hallucination? Well, it doesn’t matter now._

 “Well, if it isn’t the _soldier_ , Sakuma-san.”

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh— _no?_ ”

“Officially you are supposed to be dead. Killed in an accident—on a mission—in Berlin.”

Miyoshi smiled, “What if I’m a ghost? What would you do then?”

“Don’t joke around.”

“I apologize, truly.” Miyoshi said, chuckling. He casually slipped to a seat behind the desk. “Now then, what business do you have in this abandoned place?”

Sakuma blinked at him. “It is my job to watch over the agency as the Army Liaison.”

“Ah yes, of course, you’re the spy of the Imperial Army—I _forgot,_ ” Miyoshi responded, his smile growing. “And what does the Imperial Army want with this agency now that the Empire has _crumbled_?”

Sakuma studied Miyoshi with a still expression. He then took a deep breath before stepping forward to the desk, as he would when speaking to a superior.

“The nation is undergoing rapid changes—not just because we are no longer at war, but because we have fully surrendered to what used to be our enemy—the Americans.” Sakuma stated.

_Constant eye contact, level voice, consistent pace. The speech of a perfect soldier._

 “We don’t know for certain if the Americans have hidden agendas behind disarming and creating peace in this land,” Sakuma continued as he stood at attention. “Therefore, we need a person who can work with the Americans under the guise of helping them establishing peace, a person who can find out their real intentions and plans.”

“I see—in other words you need a _spy_.”

“It is cowardly and dishonest, but yes. Language, diplomacy, and the ability to analyze confidential and sensitive information are the skills we need,” Sakuma explained calmly. “Meaning intelligence officers trained in the D-Agency are well suited for the job.”

Miyoshi leaned back in his chair, thinking.

“Tell me then—why are you looking for a spy in a spy school that’s clearly been shut down?” He asked Sakuma with a playful twist of his mouth. “You must’ve had someone watching the area, which is why you came running here like a dog once you knew someone—that’d be myself—showed interest in these magnificent ruins. Well, you certainly managed to catch yourself a spy.”

_How foolish of me to let my guard down._

For the first time since Miyoshi saw him, Sakuma sighed and relaxed his shoulders. Miyoshi suddenly noticed the heavy lines carved on Sakuma’s forehead, making him look much older than Miyoshi remembered, as Sakuma approached him and rested one hand on the desk.

“Miyoshi,” He said quietly. “Don’t you want to know what happened to the Agency?”

Miyoshi felt his smile fade.

“To be honest, you’re the only one who’s been in this building in the past three years. The Army couldn’t afford to train high-level intelligence officers anymore with the war intensifying, so they closed the school,” Sakuma explained. “But we did maintain the intelligence operations. We continued assigning the D-Agency graduates on various missions. That is, until Japan surrendered.”

Sakuma’s gaze softened.

“Don’t you want to know what happened to your comrades?” He asked as a small, sad smile surfaced on his weary face. “No—did you even ever consider them as that?”

A few seconds passed in silence.

“I guess not.” Sakuma said.

“…Odagiri.”

Sakuma looked at Miyoshi with surprise.

“Odagiri.” Miyoshi continued. “Killed in action in Manchu*, wasn’t he?”

“…Correct.”

“Fukumoto?”

“He never came back from Shanghai.”

“Why is that?”

“He was found dead in his apartment—some kind of poison—opium, possibly. It’s uncertain whether it was overdose by accident or…”

Miyoshi crossed his hands, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

“Hatano?”

Sakuma sat down at the edge of the desk and tried to stifle his smile—a smile that was gone as soon as he spoke, “Sent to the frontlines. Could’ve dodged it, being an intelligence officer and all, but you know how he was—he never backed down from a challenge. I heard he led his men to victory, but…”

“Died like a fool?”

“Killed in battle **.** Smart man—but even he couldn’t fight an entire army alone.”

_He must’ve died trying to._

Miyoshi sighed.

“Amari? Didn’t he get caught up with a woman of some sort during his mission in Hawaii?”

“Rumor has it that he wasn’t caught up with a woman—but a little girl. Either way he stayed in America. The last information we received from him said that the Americans were rounding up Japanese people for detainment under suspicion of espionage, and that we won’t hear from him again.” Sakuma paused. “He also said that he couldn’t go back to Japan for some reason.”

_Even though he could’ve easily escaped._

“Hmph—that womanizer!” Miyoshi snorted. “What about that other fool who likes to get involved with women and children?”

Sakuma looked up. “…You mean Tazaki?”

“Who else?”

“It could’ve been Kami—“

“Him and children? Disastrous. He’s a _child_.”

“Ah, right...” Sakuma blinked.

“ _Well_?”

Sakuma sighed. “Tazaki was brilliant,” He said. “Handled many important missions in Manchu. Unfortunately, he was captured by the Soviet in Shinkyou** and…didn’t even make it to prison, it seems.”

Miyoshi uncrossed his fingers, turning them into hard fists on the table.

_Tazaki was not a careless man. He was tricked—tipped off to the Soviet._

“And Jitsui?”

“He was assigned missions throughout Japan. He was a good fit here—people thought he was too young or too sickly for the draft. Ironically, well, he really did get sick.”

“Don’t tell me he—“

“I managed to trace his family. Sent his ashes to his hometown in Nagano.”

Miyoshi sighed and looked out the window.

_At least he could return to his family._

Sakuma turned away from Miyoshi and watched the growing shadows on the floor.

 

To have come down with an illness during war—it was not unexpected. Food was hard to come by, let alone medicine. But that night Jitsui looked pleased to see him.

“I’m sorry it took me a while.” He apologized as he sat down next to a futon in a dingy, old traditional apartment.

Jitsui rose slowly from his futon, tightening his scarf, and said, “Please, I am glad you went out of your way to get some medicine for me.”

Sakuma shook his head. “It was not a problem. Connections in the army do come in useful sometimes.”

Jitsui smiled weakly. “To think that you’re helping us now—even though you used to—“

He stopped, coughing, prompting Sakuma to pour him some water. The latter held a thoughtful expression as he waited for Jitsui to recover.

“You know, I should thank you,” Sakuma said. “For watching over me back at the Agency and not making fun of me. We had our differences—but you didn’t seem to mind much.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jitsui said, wiping his mouth as his ashen face lit up with a mischievous smile. “I think soldiers like you are hopeless morons. But you weren’t acting like scum most of the time. You’re kind of smart when you try.”

“That’s hardly a compliment,” Sakuma laughed. He pulled out the little packet wrapped in cotton cloth from his pocket. “Here, take the medicine. It’s not a lot but it’ll help.”

“Yes, I’ll take them later with some food. Thank you.”

Sometime later in the chilly, early morning hours, Sakuma received a phone call. When he heard the news, it was as if a cold knife had lodged itself in his throat.     

 

 

“As for Kaminaga—he was the last one to—it was a few months ago.” Sakuma said. “A car accident—fatal.”

Miyoshi could feel heat quivering inside his guts, his own nails digging deep into his palm.

_Kaminaga—the man who could get away with anything—almost anything._

“…And the Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Disappeared. Just like you did.”

Sitting at the edge of the desk, Sakuma pulled one long deep breath, eyes still cast on the floor. The clouds have given way to the setting sun, sending in autumn-colored lights into the dark room. It was perfectly identical to the afternoon when he stood in this same room, only years ago, to report the results of John Gordon’s investigation. At that time, Sakuma had barely known the Lieutenant Colonel, but he quickly understood that that he was facing the most intelligent and terrifying man he had ever known.

 

 

That same man was facing him with fearless and unforgiving eyes, standing in a small room with broken roundtables and faded pictures of the Imperial family. It was the last of the Army’s clandestine buildings in Tokyo. The man stood tall, steady despite the cane on his right hand, drenched in the light before dusk. His expression gave away nothing even as three soldiers pointed their Arisaka rifles at him.

“Am I supposed to say I’m shocked, First Lieutenant?” He asked coolly.

Sakuma looked down, silent, except for the ticking of his watch.

“You have been working with the top brass for a long time—you would have seen this coming.” Sakuma finally said, returning the Lieutenant Colonel’s cold stare.

_That’s right. I am the fool here. You, on the other hand, could play the chess game before even presented with the chess board._

_“_ What happened to don’t die, don’t kill?” Sakuma asked sharply.

“It’s simple. I made that rule by calculating risks and possibilities. Spies who kill increase the risk of mission failure by calling attention to themselves. Spies who die decrease the possibility of mission success and eliminate the possibility of future missions.”

“What happens then when the war ends? When there are no more missions?”

Flashing a faint smile, Lt. Col. Yuuki spoke his words with clarity and enviable ease.

“You _think_ ,” He said. “You _decide_.”

It sounded so simple. Yet they were the most ridiculous words said to a soldier. They nearly made Sakuma’s blood boil—he wanted to grab the man’s collar and shout at him for the irony of it all, but he kept his hands strictly by his sides. His voice shook as a heavy weight claimed his throat.

“Is that…what you’re doing now?” Sakuma asked quietly.

_You could’ve stopped me._

Yuuki shifted his cane ever so slightly with his gloved hand.

_You know—you know this is suicide._

Sakuma opened his mouth, “Your men—“

 “You mean what is _left_ of them.”

“…The rest of them are going to be killed. Are you fine with that?”

“Once their missions are over and they do not return, they are no longer spies. I have no use for them and I don’t concern myself with their futures.” Yuuki answered evenly.

Sakuma opened his mouth but failed to find words. As an observer in the Agency, Sakuma understood how the Lieutenant Colonel had personally selected and trained each of his men, assigned them the most compatible missions, and followed up with their missions personally for years. But to hear this utter lack of compassion in his speech, truly he was the monster of monsters, unless—

“And _you_ , First Lieutenant Sakuma.”

Sakuma realized Yuuki was pointing his cane at Sakuma’s chest.

“Are you planning to remain a soldier to the end?” Yuuki asked sharply. “Following your superiors’ orders like word of god? Are you going to willingly kill and die at their command?” 

He dropped his cane and let out a small chuckle. “Pity—you have been saved by our Agency and yet you still shackle yourself to your dumb old masters. Your head—I used to think it was not so dense.”

“You’re wrong! I am not—“

Sakuma clamped his mouth shut. His mind was racing, his memories surfaced. He remembered the night when Lieutenant Colonel spoke the words that shook his core, tormenting him for long after.

He took a quick, deep breath.

“Lt. Col. Yuuki, you told me this once: money, honor, patriotism—even death is fiction. You told me the beliefs of this nation are fiction. I have been thinking since then—about what is true and what is important—and to what I should devote this life of mine. And in the end…“Sakuma paused and clenched his fists, searching into Yuuki’s gaze.

“Lt. Col. Yuuki, are things such as loyalty and sympathy… _fiction_ too?”

In the following silence, as he watched the tall graying figure enveloped in the soft afternoon light, Sakuma thought Yuuki’s eyes may have lost a little of its coldness.

“You think, you decide.” Yuuki simply said. “That is what I teach all my men.”

Sakuma took a deep breath. Then he unclenched his fists and declared, “Then this is what I’ve decided on my own, Lieutenant Colonel Yuuki.”

The man called Yuuki smiled.

“If so then do your job, you _fool_.”

Sakuma silently watched as the soldiers obeyed his orders. He walked out of the room, the sound of a metal cane hitting the floor ringing in his ears. He looked out the window and realized most of the sakura trees there were dead.

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for next part:  
> “There’s still one of them left,” Sakuma said. “He’s abroad but there is a possibility he might return to Japan. I have to complete this mission. I know him, I know how he thinks—it has to be _me_.”
> 
> The third part will be posted next Friday night. In the mean time, dear Readers, ask yourself: when Sakuma is explaining things to Miyoshi, is Sakuma a reliable narrator? Do you think he has a reason to lie or not lie in his story?
> 
> * Manchu = Manchuria  
> ** Shinkyou = Hsinking


	3. Soldier, Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spy appeared, pushing Sakuma to make a gamble on Miyoshi.

Back in a room blanketed in dust, lit only by the vanishing afternoon light, the soldier finally found the spy. The two men spoke of the past and of the people they knew—those they knew fleetingly, those they knew very little of, and those who survived only in their memories, as the war had done to too many men. Sakuma and Miyoshi survived the war—but both knew those who survived weren’t always the fortunate ones.

“For someone who thinks spying is cowardly, it is certainly _fitting_ that you know a lot about how the spies died.” Miyoshi remarked, the acid audible in his words.

Sakuma replied plainly, “It is my job as the army’s liaison and observer to report on all D-Agency officers—be that their successes or failures,” He paused. “But cowardly—well...”

_Don’t die, don’t kill. Spies must live to complete their mission and receive the next mission—even if dying seems the easy option._

 

 

Only weeks before, Sakuma was having trouble tracking the last spy. He had recruited people from all over the city to keep their eyes out—at the train stations, ports, and post offices—for this one man. He himself had exchanged his everyday clothes to either clean suits or tattered cloaks on some days in order to visit certain establishments—embassies, black markets, and other places of information exchange—but he found not even the trace of a scent.

The irony was laughable—he had become a spy in order to catch a spy. However, he found nothing laughable about the state of the nation. So many people were willing to become informants for only a days’ worth of rice—sometimes much less. True to the words he heard a long time ago, the nation lost the war and the people stopped worshipping. Everybody was exhausted, everybody was lost. They needed something new to believe in.

Sakuma had faith in his own abilities but he was no overconfident fool. He knew catching the slipperiest of the eight spies would be tricky in the least. He doubted that his information network would pay off easily. When he finally received the phone call, it was as if lightning had struck his chest.

“Mornin’, Mister. Some guy just wants in.”

Sakuma took a deep breath and asked pointedly, “What did he look like?”

“Well—how much you gonna pay?”

“More than what he paid you.”

“Mmm—he gave me tons, y’know.”

“More than what you receive from your little international smuggling business?” Sakuma asked, dropping his formal tone. “Tell me about your buyer and I’ll pay you. Keep your mouth shut or lie, and your business goes down with you. I won’t ask twice.”

“Argh—fine! Ship’s leaving, Friday 11:00 hours. This guy, all right, he’s—“

Sakuma never remembered learning to make threats of this nature. Still, he was relieved to hear the compliant but reluctant response of the other person on the line. He noted down the information and quickly made another phone call.

This time it was a woman’s thin voice greeting him, “Hello, this is—“

“It’s me. I have something important to ask you,” Sakuma launched into his explanation. He tried to keep his tone level and kind. He could picture the woman holding the other end of the line nodding quietly, biting the sleeve of her kimono as she listened.

At the end of the conversation, she asked him softly, “Would you promise one thing for me, please?”

Sakuma listened closely to her request.

“Yes, I promise you.” He said with a slow, sad smile. He had that sudden feeling of a rock plunging in the pits of his stomach as he gently put the phone back and ended the call.

 

 

Rushing through one misty morning, Sakuma couldn’t believe his eyes when he found the wreckage of the car crash, only blocks away from the port on a Friday. He could smell gasoline, burnt rubber, and even hints of brine from the ocean as he approached the scene. Stepping on glass shattered over the road like grains of rice, their bits crackling under his feet, Sakuma examined the two cars that had crumpled against one another like discarded origami paper, right in the middle of the road. A nervous crowd had gathered around the site.

“That old man just hit that cab over there!”

“Maybe he was drunk?”

“Anybody knows the victims!?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that old man—he got crippled working in the factory--didn’t even make it to war.”

“Yeah, he hung around the port all the time looking for jobs. Poor guy—had a wife and six kids, he said!”

“Hey, isn’t that cab driver a friend of yours!? You better be careful driving around here too!”

“How awful! Don’t let your sister see this!”

“That man who was in the cab—look at him!”

Sakuma looked around. He found the woman he called earlier, chewing the sleeve of her old kimono, standing silently in contrast to the noisy bystanders. A few seconds passed as they locked eyes. He then saw the old drunken man at one of the cars, his head on the wheel, resting eternal.

Sakuma nodded at the woman. She nodded back, wiping silent tears with her sleeve, and left.

He approached the cab. Both the car and the driver were as wrecked as the old man’s but the passenger door was open. Lying only a meter away were a black suitcase and the body of another man, lean and young and messy-haired. His right arm was crushed, his hips and legs not quite level. There were gravel bits and bright red spots on his face, which was twisted sideways towards the ocean, never to look up again. Sakuma kneeled down next to him.

“I know this man,” Sakuma declared after a long, hard look. He clearly remembered the sound of Kaminaga’s boisterous baritone as he drank sake and played rounds of their favorite poker game. He was always so ready to tease Sakuma—

Shuddering, Sakuma felt his insides lurch up his throat.

“If Japan lost the war, people would promptly begin to take up all their faith and put it on the antithesis of their original beliefs.” Kaminaga said once, shrugging.

_We lost. We were wrong._

_It’s over._

His breath catching, the vomiting almost took over Sakuma. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to return to the smiles of a woman and her children. Her eyes were ghosted but still kind, still hopeful.

_You promised._

Sakuma made a promise. He wanted to believe.

 

 

A few hours later he found himself back in his office with the suitcase. He unlocked it and found nothing out of the ordinary—suits, socks, shoes. Enough layers for a colder climate. A couple of books. A camera. No photographs. He wasn’t disappointed. He reached into his own pockets and pulled out a few things: cigarettes, a lighter, and a few documents—the last of which he took with sleight of hand from the pockets of a dead man.

He opened one of the documents. The paper looked yellowed. He thought he could even vaguely recognize the handwriting as he read on.

****

_December 31 st, 1940_

_Dear Uncle _____,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you that things have gotten rather unsettling since we last met and I have since left Berlin for the countryside. All my neighbors knew about it and were sad to see me leave. I thought I have dearly missed the last train, despite having bought the ticket and all, but I was lucky to find a ride the next day. I have plans to stay in Switzerland in the near future; thus, this may be the last letter I could send you in a while. For my next business assignment, I look forward to hearing it from you in person, if you decide to take a vacation up here to see me. Tell them you are looking for that proud, handsome man in that book you gave me before my departure—I find that I relate well to his character; do you think that’s strange?_

_Yours always,_

_Maki Katsuhiko_

 

Sakuma rose so quickly that his chair tipped over with a thud. Thoughts revolved around in his head like a growing storm as he paced around the room, cold sweat running down his back, a cigarette burning untouched in the ashtray by the locked window. He glanced at the closet where he hid his military items—his attire, weapons, and records—once prized possessions. Then he looked at his hands.

He remembered the things he thought he could never see again. He thought about what he could do.

_He may not be alive. He may never return._

That very same night he decided to take a gamble. He made a phone call.

“There’s still one more of them left,” Sakuma told the other person. “He’s abroad but there is a possibility he might return to Japan. I have to complete this mission. I know him, I know how he thinks—it has to be me.”

 

 

A day and a night after he discovered the existence of a certain dead person, Sakuma made his gamble and made his way to a house he hadn’t seen in a very long time. The traditional house was small, its rickety walls and roofs in need of some patching, but the yellow chrysanthemums at the front yard always bloomed beautifully without fail. Buzzing Insects orbited a dim lamp that was burning above the front door, which he slid open with a loud creak.

“Welcome home!”

Greeting him with voices the color of warm spring, two children immediately ran to him as soon as he opened the door, claiming his legs as if he were their favorite tree trunk. Sakuma laughed and picked the children up, perching each on either side of his hip. The boy on the left has his wild hair while the girl on the right has his funny eyebrows.

“I’m back.” He whispered.

A woman followed the twin’s noises down the hall, her footsteps heavy but quick as she rubbed her hands on a faded blue apron. But her thin face quickly morphed into a mixture of shock and sunshine delight at the sight of Sakuma by the door.

“I didn’t think you’d be—!” She gasped and stopped herself, shaking her head.

Sakuma smiled at her.

“Welcome home.” She smiled back, kind eyes twinkling under the soft light.

 “I’m sorry work has been keeping me away for so long.” Sakuma apologized, raising his voice gently over their toddlers’ unstoppable ramblings.

“It’s fine.” She said as she sheepishly clutched her sleeves.

“Well, from now on I’ll be home a lot more often.” He said. “I promise I’ll—ouch! Ow, ow, ow!”

Tired of being ignored, his boy had pulled his cheek to get his attention, to his mild pain and his girl’s bursting giggles. He gently knocked the boy’s forehead with his own in return.

But when Sakuma looked back at the mother, all her joy had evaporated.

“ _Otousan_ , does that—“She whispered, her eyes growing wide as they shifted between Sakuma and the door. “Does that mean—“

“They’ll still come from time to time,” Sakuma replied with a sigh. “But I’ll be around. Don’t you worry.”

He spoke the words as he held his twins tight and looked out into the moonless night, both dreading and thankful for the prospects of the dead man’s return to Tokyo.

He wondered if Miyoshi would ever return—this was a country that no longer needed him, and he never needed the idea of the country either. The one man who gave Miyoshi commands was gone—he too was no longer needed in this country. Miyoshi’s fellows—no, the other spies—had all operated independently in different places. They did not contact one another during a mission. They did not even come together at the news of his death. True to their codes, they owe themselves to the mission but nothing to each other. Truly, there was no reason for Miyoshi to return to Japan.

_There should be no reason for his return._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview for the next chapter:
> 
> _With this there’s only one person left._  
>  Sakuma gritted his teeth. “Miyoshi, you’re the last one—the last spy, the last one of your kind. If you had never returned, I—“  
>  _I wouldn’t have to do this._
> 
>  
> 
> The next and final chapter will be posted on October 28. As thanks for the long wait, yours truly will _try_ to include art for the finale. 
> 
> Oh and guess what? Kaminaga has become _KamiNowGONE._
> 
> …Okay I’ll shut up now.


	4. Loyalty, Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miyoshi and Sakuma never truly understood one another—even if one had found sympathy for the other, like the sun seeing the light of the moon for the first time.

 

Note: Since AO3 can't host images, to read the chapter with my art, read [here.](http://terassaras.tumblr.com/post/152426569363/the-return-44-finale)

 

Night was quickly descending in Tokyo. The air was growing colder and the light was starting to fade in the room where Miyoshi sat listening to Sakuma. The latter spoke as he sat on the edge of the desk, telling Miyoshi stories of the end of the spies, of the end of the agency, of the end to a tradition he was once a part of.

“I don’t hate you or what you do, Miyoshi,” Sakuma earnestly admitted, his right hand resting on the desk. “What you and the other spies were doing…I think I can understand a little now.”

Miyoshi took a deep breath and clenched his fists.

_How disgusting._

“Well,” Miyoshi said quietly. “I guess I should say I’m flattered—but rather than that, I’m impressed by how magnificent of a _liar_ you’ve become.”

Sakuma blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Now tell me—what really happened?”

“Miyoshi, what are you—”

“Don’t. Play. _Dumb_.” Miyoshi spoke in a low, even voice. “You came into this abandoned place right after I did. You did not bother to look even remotely shocked to see me—dead as I was supposed to be. Then you told me you needed a spy—and proceeded to tell me all the spies are _dead_. How _peculiar.”_

Sakuma stood up slowly, undisturbed.

“If you knew, then why haven’t you run? Why haven’t you stopped me?” 

Miyoshi rose from his seat and slammed his hands on the desk, throwing daggers with the way he looked at Sakuma.

“Answer me—what happened!?” Miyoshi snapped. “What did you do? To the agency? To everyone? To Yuuki!?”

It took him a moment to respond but Sakuma was composed in his answer.

“I erased them all.”

“What?”

“The Army is done with you.” Sakuma stated plainly. “The Army wants to erase all traces of this spy school. With the Tokyo Tribunals coming up, the world will judge us, and both this nation and the world cannot learn of the existence of the spies. No one must know how much you’ve done to help the Empire’s cause in Japan and overseas; otherwise, there is no telling what kind of punishment we as a nation would have to bear despite our current state.” Sakuma paused, looking deep into Miyoshi’s eyes. “So I closed the agency. I burned the records. I wiped your peoples’ existence. With my own eyes and _hands_.”

“You bastard! How dare you—”

_No—no, keep a level head._

Miyoshi took another deep breath and sneered at the worn lines on Sakuma’s face.

“Heh, I see—even till the end you’re still an obedient army dog.” Miyoshi scoffed. “I thought being the agency taught you something, yet you still march to your dumb old masters’ orders—what an _idiot_.”

_You—after what happened at John Gordon’s—I thought you were—_

“You’re wrong.” Sakuma said.

“Am I? Pretty sure you’re still an idiot anyhow.”

“You’re wrong about my loyalty.”

“Oh, really?”

“I am a soldier through and through and as a soldier I’m prepared to sacrifice my life at a moment’s notice. However, it is not my life _anymore_ ,” Sakuma explained, his voice heavy with sorrow. “It is now my _wife’s_ life. It is my _children’s_ life. If I don’t erase the tracks of this spy school, _they’re_ the ones who will be erased from this earth.”

Miyoshi’s mouth fell open.

“Were—were you expecting sympathy? Cause you make me want to laugh so bad I’d vomit if I could _,_ ” Miyoshi spat. “Wife or children—hah! Why should I care? In the end you’re still being played by the Empire!”

Sakuma flashed a sad smile. “But so were you. We were both pawns to the Empire’s plan—you as a spy and I as a soldier. But I have my own reasons for doing this.”

In the remains of the Tokyo academy where they first met, in the room where years ago Miyoshi made a move that would end up steering the course of Sakuma’s life, the two men once again found themselves standing in opposition, unable to fully understand one another.

“Miyoshi, I want to live for my family. I want them to live. I want them to have a future in this country –even if it means this country has to cross out its old path and those who walked in it. That is the only way we can start anew.” Sakuma said, fondly for once, and then firmly. “I’m doing this to make that future _happen_.”   

He cast Miyoshi a sharp look, his eyes burning bright, and asked him, “Miyoshi, why did _you_ come back? What do _you_ live for?”

Miyoshi looked around the room. It was as if he could hear the banter of the men who once walked through these cobwebbed halls, their faces fresh in his memory and their laughter far louder than his own thoughts. He remembered the man who used to sit on this chair, his silver hair, his distant figure always beyond his reach. He recalled the ghost of electricity running through his veins as he opened forbidden books, listened to radical lectures, and played deceiving games, many times, many years ago, within these cracked, dull walls.

“Hmph—like _hell_ I’d tell you.” Miyoshi spat.

“Right.” Sakuma sighed and blinked. “Well, it’s about time.”

“Damn right.”

Miyoshi pulled out his pocket knife, a solid Victorinox, as he hopped lightly onto the desk and off to the floor. He stood poised with a smirk and a knife, the blade low in his right hand, his left loosely positioned at chest level. At the same time Sakuma positioned himself between Miyoshi and the door. He settled into a deep stance, leaning forward with knees bent, unsheathing a much longer and lethal knife, a _tantou_ , from under his jacket.

“I can’t let you leave,” Sakuma declared. “And I won’t apologize.”

“Don’t.” Miyoshi snarled. “That’s disgusting.”

Sakuma made the first move. He stepped up and swung his tantou across Miyoshi’s chest. Dodging swiftly, Miyoshi dropped down and forward, using his left hand to check Sakuma’s right arm and stopping his motions. He pulled his right hand up, slashing his knife across Sakuma’s front thigh.

“Ahck--!”

Dropping his knife as he gripped Sakuma’s lapel and right elbow, Miyoshi pivoted on one knee and threw Sakuma forward over his shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor. Sakuma groaned as Miyoshi stomped on his shoulder and twisted his right arm to a lock, forcing him to drop his tantou.

“How many of them did you kill, you bastard!?”

The tantou fell to the floor with a clang. Miyoshi kicked it away to a corner.

Sensing the distraction, Sakuma’s free hand hooked around Miyoshi’s belt loop and pulled forward, forcing Miyoshi off his footing and releasing his right arm. Sakuma grabbed fistfuls of Miyoshi’s shirt and rolled up, shouting, hurling Miyoshi against the desk with clumsy but brutal strength.

“Aaaargh!”

Miyoshi slammed onto the desk and slid off the surface, toppling the chair with him and landing with a thump behind the desk.

“…Ungh.”

Watching the dust clouds rising on the other side, Sakuma stood up, catching his breath, his wounded leg shaking. All he had to do was go around the desk and—

Miyoshi reappeared as he planted one foot on the desk, holding the chair above him and ramming it straight onto Sakuma’s chest, sending him crashing back to the floor again.

As Sakuma struggled to get up, Miyoshi picked up his neglected knife and stabbed Sakuma on his other thigh, drawing a pained cry. Miyoshi jumped to his feet and lunged straight for the door.

“Miyoshi!”

He turned to take one last glance—

Three gunshots.

He heard three gunshots. Miyoshi’s hand slipped from the door knob. He felt nothing at first until the pain and the vivid red began to soak from under his right collarbone.

Sakuma kept his pistol pointed at Miyoshi as he staggered up, wincing, a knife still wedged on his thigh. Miyoshi slid down to the floor, breathing heavily and leaning against a wall that felt like winter on his skin. Miyoshi glanced over his wounds and stared right back at Sakuma, gaze searing like fire.

“Bastard! You had that gun, why didn’t you—“

Miyoshi stopped himself and caught his breath. A dark laughter bubbled out his mouth.

“Ah—so that’s how it is. Fighting fair like a soldier except to the very end. Well, now I feel like a _moron_.”

“Yeah, you certainly made a foolish decision.” Sakuma said.

“Speak for yourself.” Miyoshi smiled.

Sakuma cocked his gun and took aim at Miyoshi’s head as a hundred thoughts clouded his own. There was that knife on his throat again, that twisting of his insides.

Gritting his teeth, Sakuma spoke under his breath, “Miyoshi, you’re the last one—the last spy, the last one of your kind. If you had never returned, I—“

_I wouldn’t have to do this. You could’ve lived—and I could’ve lived my life waiting for your_ return _._

“Don’t get all sappy on me, Sakuma,” Miyoshi said, his smirk sharp as ever. “That’s just disgusting.”

“Well, I won’t apologize.” Sakuma replied.

Miyoshi laughed dryly. Inside, his heart was screaming frantic beats as the limpness began creeping up his feet. His head was growing light. He must be plunging into that eternal pitch-black solitude—whatever that meant—and yet it was where all the people he knew now reside. Was he truly going to meet his comrades? Or was that another fabrication, another food for the fools?

_Fukumoto. Odagiri. Jitsui. Tazaki. Hatano. Amari. Kaminaga. Yuuki._ He never knew their names. He never knew their stories. He never bothered.

_It was unnecessary._

His laughter stopped.

_How pathetic of me—does it matter? The mission is complete._

Miyoshi felt the last blood rush, the sound of his thoughts intertwining with voices, and realized that he never felt more alive than he did now. He placed a hand over the raw hole on his chest. Miyoshi felt the heartbeat on his fingertips, his purple lips cracking a small smile.

_So much for don’t die, don’t kill._

Sakuma pulled the trigger, emptying a round into the beautiful, blank-eyed man. Gunshots reverberated throughout the old empty room like thunder to his eardrums. When the echo settled, the air finally stilled, smelling of rust and old wood and sweat. The last of the light was crawling its way out.

He let his arm fall, the gun slipping from his fingers and landing on the floor with a small thud.

_With this there’s only one left._

With the last spy dead, there was still one person who walked with the spies’ shadows down the old path. His legs throbbing in pain, Sakuma stumbled to the corner and picked up his tantou. His mind returned to many mornings ago where he also sat down, unbuttoned his shirt, and held a blade firmly in his hand. This time he pointed the blade to the left of his abdomen and pushed the icy tip into his warm, bare skin.

_I guess I’m always the last one to draw the joker—_

  
 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um yeah. So, after you’re done doing whatever it is that you need to do now, I’d love to hear your questions/criticism/comments. 
> 
> Since AO3 can't host images, to read the chapter with my art, read [here.](http://terassaras.tumblr.com/post/152426569363/the-return-44-finale)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Tumblr (terassaras.tumblr.com)


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